


For How Does a Runt Survive?

by spiney



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Backstory, Character Development, Cigarettes, Coping, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Protectiveness, Thieves Guild, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25810864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiney/pseuds/spiney
Summary: Mercer receives reports that Azarahd, for years one of his most trusted lieutenants, has been increasingly violent and hostile, prone to fits of rage that have begun to stress Guild operations. When the reasons for Azarahd's stormy behavior come to light, Mercer finds himself reflecting on his own past - and on how an offered hand can be more powerful than a brandished fist.
Relationships: Mercer Frey/Original Male Character
Comments: 17
Kudos: 7
Collections: 5E201





	1. The Ja'Khajiit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thanatopsiturvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/gifts).



> Takes place in [the Modern AU](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/5E201), almost directly following the events of _[When You're Good at Something](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/5E201/works/20104612)_ by [Thanatopsiturvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/pseuds/Thanatopsiturvy). Azarahd is Topsy's OC, and Dyce - if you've somehow [never met him](https://archiveofourown.org/series/29749) before this cameo - is [mongoose_bite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite)'s.

Something was wrong with Azarahd. He'd been running Guild operations at the Riften Fishery for nearly a year now, and had proved himself a capable manager, one who measured his anger with care and precision. His temper was whip-sharp and frightening, but he rarely bared his teeth with his people. He'd become known for being firm but reasonable, calculating but approachable, the type of Khajiit one might pat on the back at the bar and declare "a good egg," to which Ahz would reply with a sly comment about humans' poor grasp of the mammalian reproductive process and a smooth, smiling offer to demonstrate the nuances.

But complaints had been making their way up the chain. "Can't talk to him about anything," they said, "chew you right out for looking at 'im." He'd gotten physical with a worker in the warehouse, and then another on the docks. 'Measured' this was not, and whispers of anxiety and resentment had begun to ripple in the ranks.

Clean rows of sans serif font blurred together as Mercer scrolled through the Fishery's employee list. Tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, he closed his eyes, removed his glasses, and rubbed rough fingertips gently over his eyelids. A wry, easy voice echoed down the hall, lilting a flirtatious tone at Dirge as it approached the office; Mercer's shoulders sagged with a relieved exhale.

"Dyce," Mercer called, loud as his voice would go without blooming into a shout. The voice said something low and conspiratorial to its unseen audience, then buoyant footsteps sounded on the thin carpet to bring the slender, smirking man himself to lean in Mercer's doorway.

"At your service," he said, offering a little bow of his head even as he crossed his arms and slumped a shoulder against the door frame. "Haven't gotten a call from you in a while—you want me to close this?"

He was a cheeky cocksucker and his relentless positivity made Mercer want to spit, but he was the right person to call. Mercer kept his face stony, unamused. "Close it. Sit."

The curl of Dyce's lips stayed hopeful, though his eyes hardened to match Mercer's tone. He sat, leaning back in his chair and widening his eyes in question. When Mercer didn't respond, he bit. "So what's this about, then?"

Mercer closed his laptop, set it aside with glasses folded neatly atop the lid, then scraped a palm over the stubble around his mouth. "Azarahd."

Dyce's brow tightened and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. "That's not very specific," Dyce said, crossing his legs. "Is this a job?"

"You've already done the job," Mercer said, waiting a beat to let it land. "I've got a personnel problem, Dyce, and I believe you can shed some light on the matter." Dyce's expression turned skeptical, expectant. "Relax; I'll pay you what you think it's worth." Dyce nodded, settled in. "Something tells me, though," Mercer began, and Dyce's shoulders tensed, "that you might be too sentimental to take payment for this one."

Dyce grinned then, big and bright. "Try me, old man."

Mercer sucked his teeth, but otherwise let the bait hang. "Our furry friend seems out of sorts. Chilly, hostile to his employees, easily provoked, needlessly violent."

"And we'd never tolerate anything of the sort, of course." Dyce's voice was low, words quick and sharp. His eyes shone with challenge for a moment, then sobered as he apparently remembered the subject of their conversation. Mercer exhaled, shallow with restraint, and Dyce gave a sincere nod. "Go on."

Mercer inclined his head and rapped a knuckle on the desk. "I know you've researched him—thoroughly. For two weeks now I've been hearing complaints. What do I need to know here?"

Dyce licked his lips again, chewed at them as his expression turned serious. He took a deep breath, then held his hands out in a gesture of innocence. "I can't," he said with a shrug. "It's not my place."

Mercer exhaled again, fingers twitching to move to his lips with a cigarette that wasn't there. "So there's something."

"Have you asked him?" Dyce's voice was rising now, eyes glowing with something like irritation. "Or is this the same sorry situation that lines my pockets time and time again, where you can't ask someone a damn question yourself?"

Mercer stood, leaned forward onto clenched fists against the wood. "Watch your tone, shitheel. I may be a disagreeable bastard, but I've been doing this longer than you've been alive. It has occurred to me, as I am sure it might occur to you in the same position, that perhaps my sullen, violent lieutenant might not feel inclined to tell me the truth." Dyce stuck out his jaw and crossed his arms in defiant silence. Mercer felt the heat leaving his skin, the swell of anger receding from his chest. "If he lies," he said, more tired now, "I need to know what he's protecting."

Dyce's head tilted at the last word, eyes narrowing to a squint. "You couldn't give me enough money, Mercer. You're right," he uncrossed his arms and pushed out of his chair, "guess I'm too sentimental. I can't help you."

"If he doesn't get right," Mercer said, and Dyce paused with his hand on the doorknob, "could be a different matter I have to deal with." He let the silence hang for a moment, then softened his tone. "Please."

Slowly, body tense and eyes still suspicious, Dyce turned back. He pursed his lips, exhaled, then spoke. "If I had to guess," he said, half shrugging, "it's family. I—someone has resurfaced. That's all I'm willing to give."

Mercer nodded. "Go."

Dyce mirrored the nod and left, a notable absence of chatter on his departure.

* * *

Computer and papers stowed away, Mercer pulled on a cigarette and stared at the steel beams of the ceiling. Azarahd had been stoic on the phone, too businesslike; now he was late. Only ten minutes—in this business it was practically still on time—but Ahz had always been punctual. Mercer heard the main door slide open, heard long strides and soft footfalls approach. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood, stepping around to lean back on his hips at the front of his desk.

Ahz knocked lightly on the door frame before he entered, his large form utterly still, a tic of politeness. Mercer nodded, and Ahz immediately settled in on the black leather couch, legs crossed ankle-over-knee, one arm stretched wide along the backrest, taking up an impressive amount of space. He hadn't said a word, and now he looked up at Mercer with an expression of tired expectation.

He didn't look much different than usual, but there was… something. His fur seemed duller, the lines of his mouth tighter, his whole body just slightly more tense, vigilant.

Mercer rested the heels of his hands on the desk, let his weight fall back. "Do you know why I asked you here?"

Azarahd sighed silently, just a rise and fall of his chest, a twitch of his whiskers. When he met Mercer's eyes it was with a firm, sarcastic gaze. "Perhaps you discovered your ex isn't as good at sucking cock as you'd remembered?"

Mercer felt his jaw twitch, and he let his eyes fall closed, forehead creasing in exasperation as he brought a hand up to rub at his eyelids. "Wow," he said, resting thumb and forefinger across his brow, "you're just coming right out the gate with the childish, petty bullshit. This is—" he opened his eyes, rested back on his hands again, "this is not what I expected."

"Your question was the sort one asks a child," Ahz replied, tilting his head back and sucking at a fang. "You can just tell me what I've done wrong."

And he could do that. But despite Azarahd's flat, cool expression, Mercer caught the backward flick of his ears, the tight pull of his upper lip, the stiff drape of his tail—Ahz was afraid.

"You haven't been sleeping," Mercer said, and Ahz's eyes narrowed and his lips twisted as he listened. "Your eyes are bloodshot and your coat looks like shit."

Ahz laughed—the sound was perhaps more raw than he'd intended, and he pulled his outstretched hand in to cover his mouth. "Pardon my outburst, _t'har_ , but is that truly your concern?"

"Your work has been suffering. Hostility is one thing—I can hardly throw stones. But when things escalate—and with Bolli's people? That brings a whole mess of problems to my door." Ahz rubbed the pad of his forefinger over his thumb, idly pressing out the claw and dragging it over his skin, watching Mercer's face with his mouth scrunched tight. Mercer sank lower in his hips, almost sitting. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I have it under control," Ahz said, quiet and clear.

"Prove it."

Ahz began to stand, and Mercer pushed off the desk and stepped forward—not barring Ahz's exit, but forcing him to either shove past or walk around if he chose to leave. Ahz settled back down into the leather, a crease forming between his eyes as his ears flattened.

"What's going on here, Azarahd?"

"Your approach is somewhat aggressive, if this is an offer of help."

"It's a warning, _wafiit_. You need to get your house in order. You're good at your job and I'd like you to keep doing it, so I'll do what I can to make sure you stay—gods know who I'd fucking pull to replace you. But if you give me nothing to work with and you don't shape up quick? There's only so much I can do if you beat up the wrong dockworker."

Ahz smiled without mirth, almost snarling as he leaned forward on his knees. "There are things you can do, and things you won't do. Has my value dropped so steeply since you started getting laid elsewhere that you wouldn't pull a string in my defense?"

Mercer's face twisted like he'd tasted something sour. "Fuck right off." He stepped in closer, toes of his boots flush with Ahz's absurd loafers. He looked down his nose, shook his head as he spoke. "We both know that has nothing to do with this—all you're accomplishing is losing my sympathy at a fucking staggering rate."

Ahz tilted his chin high, leaning back on the couch and lacing his fingers behind his head. He rolled his eyes, then slid his feet between Mercer's legs, hooking behind his heels and urging him forward. "I don't want your sympathy."

Mercer felt himself growl, throat rumbling involuntarily, vibrations rolling over his teeth. Despite himself, he imagined pressing Ahz back into the couch like he had so many times before, filling his smug mouth to the hilt, relishing the hot, delicate scrape of his tongue, the strength of his grip, the—

"Oh, something's got you in a fucking state." He reached down to take hold of Ahz's chin, held it steady as he met his eyes. "You're supposed to be the reasonable one. Never struck me as the type to grovel, offer up your ass when I threaten to fire you."

Ahz licked his lips, eyes flashing brief panic before settling on defiance. "Is this how people grovel?" He released his hands from behind his head, pulled Mercer's hand from his jaw, ghosted his claws over Mercer's forearm. "Am I doing a good job, _t'har_?"

Mercer pushed Ahz's hands away and stepped back, crossing behind the desk, making space, barriers. He breathed, then let his tone ease just a little. "So you have nothing to say."

Azarahd's gaze was roving slowly over him, lingering at his chest, his throat, his mouth. "It's nothing I can't handle."

A quiet, frustrated sigh left Mercer's chest. His hand had landed on the pack of cigarettes, so he lit one. "Family troubles?" Ahz stiffened, straightened, flared his nostrils as he started to shake his head. "Don't look so surprised; rumors are fucking cheap."

Ahz smoothed his hands over his ears and stood. "It is my own business." He took a deep breath, visibly composed himself. "I will strive to keep my temper in check. May I leave?"

Mercer took a deep draw, held it behind his lips, released it slowly as he made considerations. He could let this meeting serve as a warning, leave it at that. It would be reasonable. But something nagged at him, an itch he couldn't reach, telling him to push it. He remembered something, a conversation he'd had a long, long time ago, and he found similar words in his own mouth now. "It _was_ your business—you made it my business when you started to compromise my operation. I allow my people their pasts, but if yours is flashing its claws without discretion, I can't let that go. What am I dealing with here?"

One hand clenched at his side, the other sliding over the fur at his open collar, Ahz appeared to be reflecting, deciding. Small, almost to himself, he nodded, then straightened his back and opened his shoulders, a picture of pride and strength. "I have a brother," he said, words careful and slow.

A simple statement, just an opening, but the gravity in his articulation sent a chill along Mercer's spine. He felt his cheeks tightening against his teeth as Ahz continued.

"Our history is… complicated, as such things often are. I have recently learned that my brother's… work… has him bound for Skyrim. Soon. This has—" Ahz pressed his lips together, seemed to be pushing himself to stand straighter even as his eyes drifted to fix on the windowpane. "This knowledge has had some effect on my mood."

A velvet cylinder of ash had collected at the end of Mercer's cigarette, falling soft and silent onto the desk as he raised it to his mouth again, making him flinch. Ahz's expression was flat and stubborn, but his gaze stayed oblique—the windowpane, the radiator, the carpet. Mercer cleared his throat, and Ahz brought his eyes forward once more. "And what does your brother do for '…work'?" He imitated Ahz's reluctant cadence; Ahz nodded.

"He has served in the Thalmor militia for over fifteen years; the most recent information I have received indicates he is involved in espionage and assassination."

Mercer's eyes widened, and almost unconsciously he nodded, impressed. Any feeling of removed regard, however, was quickly replaced by simmering irritation—fucking Dyce. Couldn't leave well enough alone, couldn't leave a stone unturned. Mercer took a drag, breathed out smoke through his nose, a childish imitation of a dragon that still managed to take the edge off his anger.

He ran a hand through his hair, thinking, assessing. "Do you have reason to believe your brother will try to contact you or interfere with your business in any way?"

For a moment, Ahz's eyes flashed wild, like he'd burst out laughing, or maybe throw a punch. But fast as anything the light dulled, back to something almost-but-not-quite like calm. "Za'kir—ah, my brother—it is a fool's task to attempt to divine his actions or understand his motivations. He is a… I believe the idiom that may apply here is 'loose cannon.'"

"Thalmor employing a loose cannon as a spy." Mercer studied his cigarette, only a drag or two left. "Sounds like he may be more disciplined than you remember."

Ahz smiled bitterly, posture relaxing as he shrugged. "He is obedient when it serves him."

Mercer laughed at that, took the final pull from his cigarette, crunched it out into the half-full glass tray on the desk. "And aren't we all." Azarahd didn't laugh, just crossed his arms, very much asking to be dismissed. Mercer brushed strands of loose tobacco from his fingers. "You know my real question: Is this going to be a problem? The Guild has safe houses, it's not—"

"No." Azarahd's voice was tight, clipped. "No, that won't be necessary. This is just… this is something I must deal with. On my own."

Mercer nodded slowly, crossed his arms. "Fine. But if I hear one more complaint? You're on bag duty. Delivery boy until further notice—and if you can't even manage to stay civil for that? I know some sleazy mine owners who don't give a shit how surly their workers are. I'm sure it would be a real hassle to clean coal dust out of that pretty fur—so get your shit together, _ja'quara_."

Ahz's chest rose and fell, calmer, relieved. "Of course."

It had clearly been a dismissal, but Ahzarad did not move to leave. Mercer narrowed his eyes. "Are you waiting for something?"

Ahz tilted his head to the side, laughed lightly behind closed lips. "I haven't seen you in a few weeks, _t'har_." He smirked. "You look… Whatever your sailor friend is doing, he must be doing a very good job."

Mercer rolled his eyes, more relieved to hear the levity in Ahz's voice than he'd admit. "I'll be sure to pass along your compliments." Ahz licked his lips, stayed in place, and Mercer dropped his tone. "Are you really doing this right now?"

"Perhaps I am looking for distraction." Ahz stepped forward, brushed his fingers over the edge of the desk. "Or perhaps exhaustion—vigorous physical activity, after all, is an excellent treatment for insomnia. You seemed to want to help…" He held his palms up innocently, an amused grin twitching at his lips.

Mercer set his jaw, leaned forward on the desk. "Absolutely not," he said, each syllable articulated with precision. "Not that I haven't thought of taking a fistful of your fur and showing you how to stay in fucking line." He licked his teeth, let his breath fall heavy as he held Ahz's increasingly heated stare. "But I'm not getting mixed up in this. Deal with your shit on your own time."

Azarahd hummed a little and stepped back from the desk, clearing his throat and smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles in his shirt. "An entirely reasonable stance," he said. "In that case, I presume you do not mind if I leave?"

Mercer gestured his head toward the door. "That would be best."

With a final nod, Azarahd turned on his heel and left, tail still unusually stiff as he walked down the hall.

* * *

Mercer lay on the couch in his living room, chain smoking and listening to old country records on the gleaming brass player in the corner. He'd started to drink at first, poured himself a glass of the Glenumbra red his sister had brought when she'd arrived a few weeks prior, but the moment it had hit the back of his tongue he'd gagged. He'd swallowed down that first mouthful, then poured the rest of his glass down the drain.

When Priscilla had seen the record player, the first time she'd visited his apartment, she'd given him a wide, bewildered stare that contained a sad pride, a flash of conspiracy layered beneath her astonishment. She hadn't said a word about it, but more than once he'd caught her glancing in its direction with a warm, disbelieving smile pulling at the corners of her eyes.

The music was scratchy, simultaneously overwarm and tinny, the machine not made for modern vinyl. The records would likely be ruined, but it didn't bother him much. Let the needle slice them through, give them some fucking poignancy, some visible meaning etched into their plastic flesh. It would leave them useless when it was done, but for the moment, on the first play, they were his.

Pris had always been the brave one. Having her in his space, seeing her after… gods, he hadn't seen her since he was seventeen, not long after he'd left home—she was the same, startlingly so, and her presence had made it quickly obvious that he was just as much the same as she was. Despite the dramas of their separate lives, the ways they'd empirically changed, some ineffable base remained, something only they could see, recognized instantly in each other even after decades.

She'd been the one who'd protected him, and he'd left anyway, left her alone after everything had fallen into bloody chaos, left her with… She'd stayed, stayed for years, Mercer already spirited out of the country by the time she'd hitched her cart to a lesser lord in Wayrest, and he'd thought she was an idiot for not running even as he'd understood.

Mercer sat up, reached to the coffee table for his tea. He'd brewed a proper pot for the first time since… it had been a while, and it made him want to gag almost as much as the wine, but he was determined to drink it.

He'd stolen the record player after the Guild had broken down, when he'd fled Skyrim, waiting out the storm in Daggerfall as Karliah called for his head, the first time he'd returned since he left at nineteen, the last time he'd fled a country under threat of death. Family legend said the player was straight from the Direnni, passed down through the generations—more likely it was a Dwemer artifact pillaged from Hammerfell. But it was beautiful, its coppery-gold finish apparently impervious to tarnish, its lines curved and organic, more a singing metal flower than a machine. And when it played the recordings it was made for? Oh, did it sing.

The player had made its home in the main parlor of the Freys' manor in the city. It may have occupied that same room for hundreds of years—Mercer certainly hadn't seen evidence to indicate otherwise. Getting it out had been a feat, but he'd done it, boxed it up with a shipment of furs and sent it straight to Riften, to Ingun, with instructions for its storage and a stern order that under no circumstances was her mother to know about the box.

Now the player sat mostly unused, occasionally tearing up Mercer's old vinyl, only once playing one of the metallic discs pressed specifically for that purpose. Ingun had put it on; he'd never told her not to, hadn't really thought about it, but when he'd heard it from the kitchen he'd nearly sliced off a fingertip in shock. He'd crossed the room without a word, lifted the needle, and taken the disc away, locking it and the rest of its kind in the gun safe.

With a final, bitter swallow, Mercer finished his tea. The needle hissed as it reached the end of the record. He removed it and returned the damaged disc to its sleeve, didn't put on another.

He returned to the couch and reached for the phone, sucked down the last of a cigarette, and dialed Ahz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two points of clarification:  
> \- In this AU, Ingun and Sibbi Black-Briar are Mercer's children.  
> \- The sailor Ahz and Mercer allude to as Mercer's current/also-ex partner is Captain Jon Lonely-Gale, which is obvious if you know me but utterly perplexing if you don't.


	2. The Runt

It took Azarahd a while to show up, and when he did he was visibly suspicious. That was fair. They'd known each other for years, had been fucking almost as long, but Ahz had never been to Mercer's home.

He'd knocked, and Mercer had yelled that the door was open, and he'd still waited. Mercer yelled again, and still Ahz didn't enter, though eventually the door eased open just enough for Ahz to stick his head inside, brow tight as he looked around the room until he spotted Mercer, still lying on the couch, one leg stretched along the back now, bare toes rubbing absently at the wall.

"Ah, may I…?"

Mercer laughed at the ceiling, coughing on the smoke he'd just inhaled. "Could you not hear me?"

Ahz pushed the door open and eased it silently closed behind him, looking around the room again before looking to Mercer for cues.

He hadn't changed his clothes—crisp black buttondown, fitted black pants, those fucking loafers—but he'd freshened up, fur just a bit glossier, like he'd brushed product through it, and his eyes seemed somehow clearer; sugar, maybe, and Mercer couldn't blame him. "Sit wherever," Mercer said, knowing full well that his own body was occupying three of the four obvious options.

Azarahd settled down into the chair beside the couch, rubbed his palms over the thickly-padded leather of the arms. "You've never—" He stopped himself, biting his lip for a moment before starting again. "This is unprecedented. I admit, I am not sure what to expect, or what is expected of me." His gaze fell on Mercer's foot where it met the wall, and he sat up very straight. "Should I—my shoes, do you want me to—?"

"Azarahd." Mercer propped himself up on his elbows. "Relax. Fuck." He lay back down and shook his head at the ceiling, laughing quietly.

"Are you…" Ahz was leaning forward, seemed to be studying Mercer's posture, his movements. "I truly can't tell," he continued, "are you drunk?"

"Don't I wish," Mercer said, turning his head to face his guest. "But if you'd like to be, there's wine on the counter. Or—" Mercer reflected that he might well taste anything Azarahd drank. "No, not that one. There's a rack in the kitchen—"

"I think I'll be… I'm fine, thank you." Ahz rested his elbows on his knees; his whiskers twitched. "Are you all right?"

"Did you know," Mercer said, lifting himself a little higher on the pillow, biting the tip of his tongue before he continued, "that I also have a brother?"

Ahz shook his head, jaw tight, waiting for Mercer to continue.

Mercer looked up, as if counting. "Well, I _had_ three brothers." He brought his eyes back to Ahz, relaxed a little, stubbed out his cigarette. "Just the one, now."

He'd smoked enough that he could feel a migraine blooming deep behind his eyes, sharp as the needle on the record player, tinged with nausea. Last one, then, he thought, lighting up another.

"Five of you, then?" Ahz watched Mercer's hands as he spoke. "Four brothers and Lady Priscilla?"

Mercer choked on a laugh, a genuine, barking sound that had him shaking his head and ginning wide. His sister was undoubtedly a lady, both in title and bearing, but that didn't make the thought any less ridiculous. When he'd contained his amusement, he nodded, swallowed. "Correct. Look at you, practicing your arithmetic. How could anyone doubt your competence in the warehouse, skills like that."

Finally, mercifully, Azarahd relaxed, sinking back into the chair, crossing his legs, shaking his head. "Did you call me over to offer cryptic insights into your personal history alongside uncreative insults? Because if that is the case, perhaps I will take you up on that drink."

"Suit yourself." Mercer stretched his legs and pushed up to sitting.

Azarahd made no move to stand, combed his fingers through the fur at his jaw, brow pensive. "Why am I here, _t'har_?"

Mercer felt his upper lip curl into an involuntary snarl. "Drop the formality. You're in my house; I'm not your boss right now."

Ahz cocked a brow, ears perked forward, cynical and focused. "Perhaps if I repeat the question, you will feel more inclined to answer it: why did you want me to come here, Mercer?"

Mercer reached for the glass of sparkling water that dripped onto a stone coaster on the table. He put out his last cigarette, then drank deeply, letting the bubbles push up into his sinuses. "You're afraid of your brother," he said, wiping his mouth on his wrist. "And not just of what might happen if he comes for you." Mercer leaned back into the couch, put his feet up on the table, crossed at the ankles. Ahz sat very still in his chair, working a fingertip rhythmically over his knee. "I remember what that's like." He smiled to himself, shook his head to ward off a shudder. "I know what that's like."

Ahz cleared his throat, uncrossed his legs. "If you intend to offer advice, I—"

"No. No, I haven't got any. You're fucking smart; there's not much I can tell you that you don't already know. I've just been… thinking. All godsdamned day." He sat up, planted his feet on the carpet, looked Ahz square in the face. "So I called you."

Lips tight and breath shallow, Azarahd reached out for Mercer's water glass and took a sip, then stood up and moved to the couch as if to sit, pausing before he did. "Do you mind if I open a window?"

Mercer looked around the room, let his eyes adjust until he saw the faint, lingering haze of smoke that had spread through the space. He nodded and tipped his head toward the far wall, dominated by one large window that didn't open and two smaller windows on each side that did. Azarahd opened them both, letting in a rush of cool, muggy air, then looked up to the ceiling where the fan was already whirring in near silence. He returned to the couch and sat down at Mercer's side.

"If you need a safe house," Mercer said, "just say the word. You're too valuable for me to have to fucking demote you for assault. If there's something I can do to help you feel secure… You've proved your worth, Ahz. You're not some green kid. So just, ask."

He did feel drunk; his words felt foreign, raw, too soft to have come from his mouth, but they were the words that had been swimming around his head all day, and it was a relief to say them.

Azarahd's palm had found Mercer's wrist, long fingers curling around to stroke along his pulse point. "Thank you," Ahz said, quiet, like he knew this was strange, like he understood it was something private.

It wasn't new information that Mercer and Ahz were, in many ways, alike. And Mercer remembered what the Guild had done for him back in Daggerfall, the shelter he'd been given. Remembered the powerful feeling that he could earn protection by his actions, that it was something under his control. It had fallen apart, of course—he'd let it fall apart, but his Guildmaster had still taken care of him, had sent him here. And he was never safe, never had been, but the gratitude he felt for the agency he'd been granted was difficult to overstate.

Mercer reached over and mirrored Ahz's loose grip, hand around Ahz's wrist, thumb circling over the pale, thin fur at the inside. "Did you still want something other than sympathy?" he asked, voice pitched low.

Ahz squeezed at Mercer's forearm, let his claws push out for a moment before relaxing his grip. "Very much, yes."

"Good." Mercer squared his shoulders and reached up to bury his fingers in the long, thick fur behind Ahz's ear, tugging him down to eye level. Ahz let himself be led without struggle, neck and shoulders loose and eyes suddenly blazing. Nose to nose now, Mercer's voice turned hard once more. "Because I've been thinking about all the ways I might fuck some sense into you. Do you think there's any chance that might work, _rhojiit_?"

Azarahd's breath was hot and fast against Mercer's face, his whiskers twitching over Mercer's cheekbones as he spoke. "I think it may be worth a try, _t'har_."

Mercer tightened his grip on Azarahd's fur, pulled his head back. "Thought I told you to drop the formality." He let his teeth show, grin turning predatory. "Unless you'd like me to be your boss."

It was a question, and it had Mercer's breath coming heavy as he awaited an answer. Azarahd's eyes fell closed for a moment; he leaned back into Mercer's hand, swallowed thickly. "I think I would like that, _t'har_."

His throat was bared, long and pulsing and draped with lush brown fur—Mercer's mouth watered, but he held back, released his hold. Azarahd sat up straight, kept his eyes fixed on Mercer's face, waiting.

Mercer brought a hand to Azarahd's thigh, slid along the lean muscle, not too high, not yet. "Are you already hard for me?" he asked, hand stopping below Azarahd's groin, fingertips pressing into fabric-covered flesh.

Ahz panted, arched his back reflexively, didn't miss a beat. "Entirely, yes."

Mercer's nostrils flared and he groaned silently in his throat, moved his touch higher, pressing his palm against Ahz's balls, sliding up and across to where his cock lay pinned to his opposite thigh, substantial and straining under Mercer's hand. Ahz's hips rocked forward, and Mercer pressed him back, harder than was likely comfortable. "Easy, _rhojiit_ , there's no rush."

Azarahd hissed through his teeth, let his head fall back against the wall, hummed his approval as Mercer rocked his palm over his dick. "What about you, _t'har_? Are you—" Mercer squeezed and pressed at the head of his cock, and Ahz gasped and sighed.

"We'll get to that," Mercer said, savoring the sensation of Ahz's pulse beneath his hand. He was well on his own way, but better for Ahz not to know the specifics, not just yet. He continued to move over Azarahd's cock, slow, rolling friction, then slipped his other hand behind the hem of his shirt, fingers sliding up Ahz's side, finding his heated skin beneath more fur. "You see that door?" He tilted his head to the opposite side of the room. Ahz nodded. "That's my bedroom. I want you to go in there, strip down to these little shorts I'm feeling, and wait for me on the bed. Can you do that?"

Ahz's cock twitched under Mercer's hand; he pressed harder, grabbed at it greedily. Ahz nodded again. "Yes. I can do that."

Mercer dragged his nails gently down Ahz's side, then pulled both his hands away and stood. Azarahd's eyes fell to the noticeable distortion in the line of Mercer's dark jeans, but he made no smart comment, just promptly looked back to Mercer's face, pupils wide with want. "Go on, then," Mercer said, stepping out of the way and watching Ahz tread dutifully across the carpet.

When the door clicked shut, Mercer released a long exhale. He picked up his glass and his empty teacup and carried them to the kitchen, leaning his hips into the counter with a stifled groan. He washed his hands, breathed for a few moments, then walked back to his bedroom.

The intense jolt of desire that he felt upon seeing Azarahd in his bed was unexpected, a jarring, intoxicating dissonance. He was kneeling, legs folded beneath himself in a way that was somehow graceful, tail wrapped coyly around the front of his knees, coiled over the bedspread. Mercer cursed before he could stop himself, and Ahz's lips curled with quiet satisfaction. The bedside lamp was on—Mercer couldn't remember if he'd left it that way himself, but he was glad for it, the way the dim yellow light threw stark shadows over Ahz's form, cast coppery highlights where it shone across his fur, glinted nearly gold in the amber of his eyes. As instructed, he was bare except for his dark boxer briefs, unabashedly tented, cock barely contained by the stretch of the fabric.

Although they hadn't established a specific etiquette, Ahz was silent, waiting. Mercer closed the door quietly, then moved to stand with his knees against the mattress. Close enough to touch, but he didn't.

"Do you think of me?" he asked, and Azarahd tilted his head slightly, waiting for clarification. Mercer huffed a small laugh, bit the inside of his lip, eyes drinking in every inch of the sight before him. "When you rock into your own hand, are you ever thinking about me?"

Azarahd shivered, his voice tight when he spoke. "Sometimes."

Mercer nodded, then reached out slowly and ran his hand over Azarahd's tail. It curved up to meet his touch, and he squeezed at it possessively before withdrawing again. Ahz's breath came quickly. "I want you to tell me what you think about, _ma'dariit_."

"Ah." Azarahd smiled slyly, fingers curling and uncurling where they rested on his thighs. "Well," he began, meeting Mercer's eyes. "I'm on the couch in your office. You're on your knees, and you're sucking my cock as if you have something to prove." His chest rose and fell quickly; Mercer held himself very still as Ahz continued. "I—" Ahz closed his eyes for a moment, sighed, then held eye contact again. "I have my hands in your hair, and you're groaning around me, holding me down, and when I come it's on your face, over your lips and chin and down your neck, spilling onto your jacket and splattering the patches…"

The tendons in Azarahd's neck were twitching with his effort to keep still—Mercer was no better, pulse throbbing everywhere now, cheeks tightening at the thought of Ahz's cock in his mouth. Voice heated and low, Mercer asked, "Is that what you think of my authority?" He placed a hand on Ahz's chest, glided out to his shoulder, thumb tracing over his collarbone to earn a tight sigh. "Something to be spent on, defiled?"

Ahz leaned forward into Mercer's hand, shook his head softly, smiled with an edge of sarcasm. "Only sometimes, _t'har_."

Oh. The sensation in Mercer's gut was part need, part dread. It was smoldering and furious and soft, and it wanted to take everything. Wanted to push Ahz back and pin him down and sink in deep, wanted his teeth in Ahz's throat, Ahz's claws in his back and just, everything, anything—

One hand still at his shoulder, Mercer brought his other hand to Azarahd's neck, knuckles quickly disappearing beneath the fur, thumb lightly stroking over his throat. Ahz parted his lips, chewed at his tongue; Mercer felt him swallow, slow and tense. "Touch yourself for me," he said, and fast as anything Ahz's hand slipped behind his waistband, began to work beneath the fabric. When his eyes started to flutter closed, Mercer's thumb pressed firmly over his throat. "Look at me," he said, barely keeping his composure as his skin flooded with heat under Ahz's stare.

They could only keep it up for a few moments, maybe a minute, before Azarahd slid his free hand behind Mercer's neck, before Mercer crawled up onto the bed, before they were biting and tugging and pressing at each other, grinding through their clothes, blood and breath and spit and skin.

They separated long enough to cast their remaining clothes aside, then Mercer pushed Ahz back, slotting himself between his legs and lowering down to speak in his ear. "How do you want me?"

Ahz was sliding his hands up and down Mercer's arms, eyes wild and hungry. "Ah—any way you like, just," his hips bucked upward, and Mercer bit down a groan, "please."

Mercer pulled back, lingered for another moment of clutching at Ahz's sides, nosing into his fur and biting at his chest as Ahz's fingers laced into his hair, then rolled away and reached for the nightstand, pulling lube and a condom from the drawer.

Azarahd turned onto his side, reached for Mercer's hip, watched him roll down the condom with lust-drunk focus.

"On your back."

Ahz rolled flat and let his knees fall wide, thighs visibly twitching at the click of the cap, the squelch of the bottle, the wet, silky sound of Mercer working the lube around his fingers. Mercer’s chest thrummed hard and hungry—he pinned Ahz’s hips with his forearm as his clean hand gripped at the base of Ahz’s tail, tugging down slow and firm until Ahz croaked a quiet wail.

Ahz was gorgeous like this, soft and desperate in the golden light, ass and tail pulling against Mercer’s pressure, cock dribbling freely into the downy fur below his navel. Mercer’s hips rocked forward into the sheets reflexively, impossible to stop the reaction, and he brought his slick fingers to Ahz’s entrance, worked him open roughly as Ahz groaned and hitched his hips and wrapped his straining tail around Mercer’s ankle.

There were pleas and grunts and nods, and then one of Ahz's legs was hooked in the crook of Mercer’s arm, the other wrapped around his waist. Mercer pushed in smooth and tight, Ahz whining and hissing and clutching at the backs of his arms, at his ribs, at his shoulder blades. Mercer slid past the last of Ahz's resistance, pushed harder as he bottomed out, pushed with all his weight until Ahz hitched his hips higher with a string of pained, high-pitched obscenities.

"How many people get to see you like this?" Mercer grabbed behind Ahz's head, held him back against the mattress, watched as his face twisted with each punching thrust. "What does it take—" He brought his hips in hard, pace quickening as Ahz's body opened for him, and Ahz cried out and tugged against Mercer's hold and sank his claws into Mercer's skin, and fuck, oh it washed over him hot and frantic, was he saying something— "Fuck, what does it take to—" Ahz was groaning beneath him, tendons in his neck tight against Mercer's hand, and— "Gods, to get you like this, you fucking—"

"Mercer, _ziss_ , p—" Ahz had closed his eyes, mouth lolling open as he rocked back and forth with the force of their movements. "Mm, please—stop talki—"

Warm, so fucking warm, heat spreading across Mercer's back, coiling in his legs as his hamstrings flexed, sweat beading at his hairline and pooling behind his knees, the short fur on Ahz's legs clinging damply to his skin. Entirely maddening, intoxicating, the way Ahz molded to him, arched and curled with him, hips thrown impossibly wide but still so fucking strong, the way it felt like a fight even as Ahz clutched him close and slurred vulgar pleas into his neck.

Memories, good and bad, teased at the edge of Mercer's consciousness, but they couldn't linger, not with Ahz pulsing and gripping and shifting and making indescribable tiny, desperate sounds. The corners of Mercer's vision were blurring, his eyes closing reflexively to temper the rushing, cresting want building to something huge and whole and all-consuming, driving his legs harder, tensing his abdomen, pulling ugly sounds from his throat as Ahz's greedy body fucking took him like it would never be enough.

Mercer pushed up, made space between them, and Ahz curled with him, face pressed against the side of Mercer's head; Mercer pushed him back down, nudged his hips up, slipped both of Ahz's long legs over his shoulders. "I'm going to watch you come," Mercer said, breath catching between his words, chest and neck flushing hot at the wild gleam in Ahz's eyes. "Go on," he said, easing his force for a moment and shifting his weight to give Ahz room, "and don't fucking look away."

Ahz just nodded, urgent and wide-eyed, one hand over his head clutching the mattress and the other slipping between his pinned legs to take hold of his cock. He could barely maneuver, just enough space for short, crude movements of his wrist and forearm, but it was enough. When Ahz's breath began to thicken and his hips found a rhythm, Mercer laid into him all over again.

It wasn't long. Pulling awkwardly but steadily at his cock, holding Mercer's stare as Mercer pounded down to the hilt over and over, Ahz was a shaking, begging mess by the time he shouted and tensed and locked his ankles behind Mercer's shoulders, pulling Mercer down as he squeezed his eyes shut and came with violent, wracking jerks of his hips, nearly bucking Mercer off with the force.

Mercer had been holding off for a while; for a moment, as Ahz's body thrummed and softened beneath him, legs giving way to his weight, the wet mess of Ahz's cock and balls and stomach pressing into him freely, Mercer found himself slowing, tiring, worrying he'd missed his window. But the thought barely had time to register—Ahz brought his dripping fingers to Mercer's neck, slid up over his pulse with a touch both vicious and tender, rolled around to the thick, tight muscle along his spine. He pulled down to tip Mercer's balance forward and bring Mercer's ear to his lips, whiskers prickling at the sensitive skin.

"I had an orgasm, _t'har_ —I'm not going to break."

He nipped at Mercer's earlobe, and easy as that a fury raced up Mercer's back. He pressed his palms behind Ahz's knees, forcing Ahz's legs down as low and wide as they would go, pushing his own body upright, and it was so fucking deep, and Ahz was such a good fucking slut, tilting his hips to meet Mercer's thrusts, moaning soft and low, spent cock twitching at each impact, he—

"I'm—"

" _Please_."

Gods, fuck, claws in the meat of his shoulder, everything so warm and so tight and he _needed_ it, couldn't stop now if he tried, body arcing up, arms extending fully and pushing Ahz's legs back impossibly farther, hips moving with a desperate mechanical ferocity as pleasure raged through him, leaving him blinded and breathless and exhausted down to his bones.

He'd let his weight fall as he came, and now Ahz pressed up with his legs, just a nudge, both of their bodies so much heavier than they'd been a few minutes before. Mercer could feel small twitches in Ahz's thighs, and he caught his breath and nodded and pushed himself up, slowly pulling back to his knees as Ahz let his legs splay out with a relieved sigh.

  


In the bathroom, wringing out a warm washcloth, Mercer looked in the mirror, studied the scratches and punctures on his shoulders and arms and ribs. His lips curled at the sight, smug and satisfied as he turned back to the bedroom.

Ahz looked up at him from the mussed sheets, eyes glazed and body utterly slack. Mercer lay back down beside him and propped himself up on an elbow, reaching his free hand to slide in the mess on Azarahd's stomach and chest, swirling thick and teasing into his fur until Ahz swatted his hand away.

"I thought you were trying to help," Ahz said, tone light as he grabbed at the washcloth and rubbed it briskly over his torso.

Mercer wiped his fingers on Ahz's side, earning a gentle glare. "I'm not actually known for being helpful." He shrugged, then watched Ahz towel off, watched him sit up and fold the washcloth and smooth down his fur with precise, delicate gestures, and fuck if that didn't make him want to make a mess of it all over again.

Azarahd flopped back down, rolling to his side and bringing a warm, lazy hand to Mercer's arm. He watched Mercer's face for a moment, and Mercer knew what he was looking for. It was as predictable and inescapable as the stink of fish in the market; Mercer would flinch. Sometimes in his eyes, sometimes a muscle jumping beneath his skin. Maybe a sound, small and restrained, a hum in the sinuses or a click in the throat.

But Mercer was home, in his own bed, skin buzzing and damp and it wasn't so bad, was it? He felt his brow pinch, but it was different—his body stayed relaxed, and he brought his own hand to Ahz's elbow, rubbed his thumb in the dips between the bones.

"It's fine," he said, and fuck, his voice was tired. It was his throat, he realized, burned up from the dozens of cigarettes, finished off by the cumulative small, rough sounds of the last however-long. He licked his lips, suddenly so dry. "If you wanted to stay, I mean. That would be fine."

Ahz's touch remained tentative, the pads of his fingers idly pressing into muscle. He pulled his head back, as if to study Mercer more fully, see the bigger picture. "I find myself in much the same position as when I arrived," he began, slow and thoughtful. "In your home, where I have never been. In your bed, when it is rare that we even rent a room for these things. To stay would… This is, as I said, unprecedented." His lips were scrunched tight, as if he had more to say; Mercer waited, feeling sleep tugging heavily at his mind. "You do not know enough to pity me," Ahz said, "and I do not wish to stay where I am not wanted. If this is an offer based in pity, I would rather leave."

"It's not." Gods he was tired, and his thoughts came blunt and impatient. "How long have you known me?" Ahz opened his mouth to answer, but Mercer held up a hand. He shrugged away from Ahz's touch, sat up and reached to the nightstand for his cigarettes, then offered the pack to Ahz, who declined. "Have you ever," he let the first puff of smoke plume out with no small drama, "seen me take pity on anyone?"

Still on his side, looking up at Mercer now, Ahz didn't quite laugh. "Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?" He was smirking, shaking his head.

"I've never found charm to be all that useful." Ahz's knuckle was dragging along the outside of his thigh—Mercer hummed at the sensation, leaned his head back into the headboard. "You're right," he said, "I only know the broadest strokes of your situation. But I know how you've been acting, and I know my own…" he gestured vaguely, smoke circling with the motions of his hand, "…family shit. I figure you don't want to sleep alone, and you're already here."

He suspected it sounded like bullshit, and Ahz proved him correct. "It seems I will need to be more direct," Ahz said. "Do you want me to stay?"

Mercer nearly spit back some line about how that wasn't the issue, how it didn't matter—but it did, didn't it? If he deflected, Ahz would leave—he'd either go home, or he'd find another bed to crawl in, sleep sacrificed for the false security and distraction he almost certainly craved. Either way, Mercer needed to answer the question.

He worked his jaw back and forth in consideration, then spoke in a low, almost secretive tone. "I—" He sucked his words back in, took a deep drag. "I like you, Azarahd. I like your company. And the thought of you leaving tonight instead of staying… it fucking pisses me off."

Azarahd smiled, not without mischief despite the tired droop of his eyes. "I'll take that as the most direct request I'm likely to receive." He exhaled, sinking into the pillow for a moment before pulling the covers over them both.

Mercer put out his cigarette and turned off the light, settling in beneath the sheets without another word. Once he'd stilled he felt the brush of Ahz's fingertips over his bicep, lazy and undemanding, just an absent touch. The air was thick, stiff, as if Ahz might say something else, but they stayed quiet and the air softened as their breaths fell heavier and their bodies slackened. Faster than he'd expected, Mercer was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some beautiful and deeply NSFW [art](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/840934), courtesy of Topsy.


	3. The Dusk and the Dawn

Sometime before morning, the light gray and vague through the window, Mercer rolled awake, his whole body jolting when he found himself barely an inch from Azarahd's sleeping face. Ahz stirred at the movement, eyes barely opening as he reached out to stroke Mercer's waist like he was soothing a frightened animal. He muttered something in sleep-thick Ta'agra, squeezed at Mercer's hip, then rolled onto his back.

Mercer was hard, which wasn't surprising, but it felt more like an annoyance than anything else. Sitting up, he reached to the nightstand, blearily closing his hand around an empty water glass. He sipped at it anyway, muscle memory completing the motion, a trickle of room temperature liquid hitting his tongue, tepid and disappointing but still easing some of the stickiness from his mouth. He began to push the blankets aside, but Ahz rolled back towards him, laid a heavy hand over his thigh and pressed down, a nonspecific request that was nevertheless quite clear. Mercer set the glass down.

Still soft-edged and dazed, Ahz tilted his head back, looking up from the pillow. "May I?" he asked, touch trailing to Mercer's inner thigh, making him shift his hips, spread his legs a little wider to let Ahz's fingers slide freely.

Mercer's breath was thick and his voice cracked—gods he needed water. "Do what you want," he said, relaxing his posture and leaning back against the headboard.

Ahz rolled his eyes and squeezed at Mercer's thigh. "Try not to sound so excited," he said, pushing his fingers up against Mercer's balls, nudging the skin loose from where it clung, and Mercer swallowed and closed his eyes and made no further comment.

After only a few languid passes of Azarahd's hand over his cock, Mercer noticed a pressure that wasn't the sort Ahz was aiming for. He took hold of Ahz's wrist. "Stop," he said, half groaning. Ahz did, brow knit with question and concern. "Have to piss."

It took some time. Waiting for his erection to ease enough to relieve himself, Mercer filled his glass at the tap and drank greedily, skin cooling as he swallowed. An inventory of the counter brought a twinge to Mercer's chest—a second toothbrush hanging alongside his own, a razor flecked with dark hairs lying at the edge of the sink. Jon would be back soon. It wasn't that Ahz's presence would be a problem—on the contrary, Mercer had to stop himself from imagining opening the bathroom door to find Jon had crawled into bed, had to push down flashes of Jon nuzzling into Ahz's neck, running a large, rough hand down beneath the sheets, Ahz's head falling back against the headboard with a contented sigh… Mercer put down his glass, too loud, then splashed his face with cold water and went about his business.

The sight when he opened the door wasn't the one from his fantasy, but it still struck him. Ahz was sitting up, fur mussed on one side—half-smooth, like he'd tried to fix it—glowing a dull, deep russet in the faint light before the sunrise. It would be streaming in through this window soon, sharp and white and forming little pockets of warmth where it fell, but for now things were suspended, indirect, dreamlike.

Ahz was looking at him with curiosity, eyes narrow and head just slightly tilted. He held a book in his lap above the covers, one finger slipped between the pages to hold his place. Mercer's lips twisted in a caricature of malicious displeasure.

"Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to go through other people's things?"

Where he'd expected some sort of laugh, some quick, dry retort, Ahz just held his eyes narrow, questioning. "You don't know Ta'agra," he said.

Mercer squinted, shook his head a little as he leaned back, then crossed to the bed and sat beside Ahz, pulling the sheets back up to his hips. "I'm sure I've never pretended otherwise, _ma'dariit_."

There was the reaction he was looking for: an eyeroll, a quick pulse of air through the nose. "Please understand that, while I do appreciate your scattered vocabulary words, which you use… mostly correctly," Mercer held an offended hand to his chest, "you've never shown any grasp of grammar or syntax. So when I saw this on the nightstand," he held up the book, and the puzzle came together, "you can imagine my interest." He said something in Ta'agra then, slowly, as if challenging Mercer to prove him wrong—Mercer picked out the words for _read_ , _book_ , and _simple_ , alongside a general indication of doubt. There was an insult, either directed at his intelligence or the book's—maybe both.

_Jer Deje Var Vir Vara_ —one of a long-running, popular series about a debonair Cathay-raht secret agent in service of the Mane. Mercer held out his hand; Ahz gave him the book. He fanned the pages lightly, flipped the book to look at the copy on the back—Ahz was right, he couldn't read it, not even close. He ran a finger over the worn-paper spine.

"It's not mine," he said, reaching over Ahz's chest to place it back on the nightstand. "Wasn't even on my side of the bed. I'm sure you didn't overlook that."

Ahz raised a brow, amused and surprised. "Your sailor reads Ta'agra?"

Mercer coughed at the phrasing, ran his hands through his hair. As a young man Jon had worked on a crew out of Senchal, and he'd spent the last few decades based out of Leyawiin—he'd made it a point to keep his Ta'agra fluent, and Mercer suspected it was a comfort for Jon to maintain that connection after the difficult move north.

Ahz hummed at Mercer's silence, sat up straighter. "If I've overstepped—"

"No. No you're—" Mercer turned to face him, began to stretch out on his side. "Wasn't there something…" Propped up on his elbow now, Mercer reached over to Ahz's waist, ran his palm low over his abdomen, knuckles brushing against the gentle swell of Ahz's half-hard cock, fingertips luxuriating in the fine, feathery fur that surrounded it.

Always so easy, and sure it was petty to deflect, but Ahz was groaning now, covers cast aside as Mercer lowered himself between his legs, cock thick and leaking now in Mercer's mouth, fingers twining in Mercer's hair and hips twitching under Mercer's grip and legs flexing at Mercer's sides. Mercer took him greedily, hungrily, soothed and focused by the soft, wanton hitches in Ahz's breath, the tension that bowed and straightened his spine, the eventual way he stiffened and cursed and bucked up against Mercer's hold as he shot hot, pungent seed over the back of Mercer's tongue.

Panting, skin radiating heat beneath his fur, Ahz curled forward and pulled Mercer up into a sloppy, poorly-aimed kiss, then nudged at him with his knee until Mercer rolled onto his back. Ahz slid himself between Mercer's legs, bracing his arms alongside Mercer's head and pressing their hips together. Ahz's cock was wet, sticky, steadily softening—the sighs and small sounds he made as he ground down against Mercer were ones of satisfaction and relief rather than building desire. When he'd become too soft to sustain consistent motion he reached down between them and took hold of Mercer's straining cock, pressed it against the yielding flesh of his own, tugged and rolled and worked them together until Mercer was whimpering, until he wrapped his legs around Ahz's hips and braced his hands behind Ahz's neck and rocked up into him, muttering nonsense as his chest cracked open and he spilled out onto his stomach through Ahz's slender fingers.

"Fuck." His fingers deep in Ahz's fur and his thighs clinging tight to Ahz's sides, Mercer gripped hard for a moment, bit gently at Ahz's exposed throat. Ahz laughed and nearly purred, baring his throat further, letting Mercer's teeth graze it once more before pushing up just out of reach. He smiled with a glint of victory, licked a fang, then rolled away.

"This has been," Ahz reached over, combed his fingers through Mercer's hair with a familiarity they only shared after orgasm, "a welcome distraction from my troubles. I slept… very well last night. Thank you."

Mercer worked his jaw back and forth for longer than was discreet, undecided on his approach. He shrugged. "You weren't the only one who needed distracting. You would have found another bed."

Azarahd's hand stilled; he looked almost hurt, but he said nothing more, just breathed for a moment, then resumed the slide of his fingertips on Mercer's scalp.

Mercer cleared his throat, pulled his head away, moved to the edge of the mattress and began to stand. "I'm sure you have places to be," he said, less a request that Ahz leave than an opening, an escape hatch left unlocked. He nodded towards the bathroom. "I'm going to clean up—there's coffee if you want, and you're free to—"

Ahz's expression was odd. A little distant, a little amused, a little pained, a deep crease in his forehead and a backwards twitch in his ears. "I know," he began, voice too loud until he caught it, "that I will not find solutions this way," he gestured to the bed, "here or anywhere else. But I—" He pursed his lips, pulled his knees up and shoulders back in a stretch. "I'm glad you called."

Standing naked and covered in his own filth, sun creeping in at his back, Mercer lit a cigarette from the nightstand. "I called for selfish ends that happened to match yours."

Ahz stood on the opposite side of the bed, broad and well-fucked with an unaccountably sly gleam in his eyes. He didn't buy the bravado, and that was fine. Let him believe what he wanted. "An observant person might think the big thief boss has a problem accepting gratitude."

Mercer snorted out smoke, coughed at the dry burn in his sinuses. "Thanks for the counsel, doctor; everything is so clear now."

Another long, luscious stretch, fingers nearly touching the ceiling at their height, then Ahz began to gather his clothes. Mercer picked up the ashtray and moved to look out the window, out over the boardwalk and into the sleazy, patchwork maze of Old Town, near-deserted at this hour, the sounds of distant cars and rolling shop grates and bells on the lake nearly silenced by the enchantments on the window. He felt possessive in these moments, felt the vindicating rush that he was _right_ to feel that way, that this slice of the city was and had been, in many ways, his. Bare-assed and come-smeared and reeking of cigarettes and fear sweat and sex, he felt good.

"There's, ah—" Ahz's belt buckle jangled against itself. "It would be an overstep this time, surely, but—"

He could hear a smile in Ahz's voice, something coy and amused. Mercer didn't turn around, just watched the walk below, imagined the sound of the old boards beneath the wheels of a passing cyclist, the rapid, weighty thunk. "If you're already talking, you've decided you want to take that risk."

The warm slide of leather on fiber as Ahz's belt passed through its loops, the final clink of the buckle as he secured it. "I couldn't help but notice," his voice was getting closer, footsteps soft on the carpet, "the way you… all of this, really, in little ways. But what I mean is—" Mercer turned around now, ashtray held at his stomach as he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Ahz was out of reach, had sat down on Mercer's side of the bed, barefoot and shirtless with his tail twitching quietly against his leg. "What I mean is, I can tell you've been fucking someone you love." Ahz's eyes scanned the room absently, looking at anything at all that wasn't Mercer, then settling back on their target with a quiet weight. "I suppose I thought you should know."

If Mercer had to guess at his own facial expression, the word he would choose to describe it might be 'constipated.' He took a long drag, let his eyebrows pull high as his eyes closed, let his lips press together in a twisted line, teeth clamping down on the side of his tongue. It was excessive, and it passed quickly, but it was enough to make Ahz look down into his own lap, bashful and chastised. Mercer exhaled, prematurely extinguished his cigarette, and placed the ashtray on the windowsill. "Any other fascinating insights?" He almost went further, almost got hostile, but there was no point.

Ahz stood, holding up his hands in innocence, releasing a light, not-quite-nervous chuckle. "That," he dropped his hands, shook his head, "is the last I will say on the matter."

Mercer nodded and gave an affirmative grunt, then crossed to the bathroom and flipped on the light, stopping in the doorway to turn back to Ahz. "Feel free." He tilted his head towards the shower. "Just because you're a nosy _dosiit_ who thinks he knows my business doesn't mean I'll make you leave here smelling like you do."

"A true gentleman," Ahz said, buttoning up his shirt. "If I make coffee, how much will you want?"

Mercer entered the bathroom and turned on the water, cracked open the frosted-glass window. "Make a whole pot," he called over his shoulder. "Strong. Beans and grinder are on the counter." He took a clean washcloth from the shelf, wiping the sticky hair at the base of his cock as he walked back to the doorway, birdsong and running water and thoughts of coffee already waking him. "Azarahd."

Ahz had loosely made the bed and was halfway to the door to the living room, carrying his shoes. Mercer wiped under his balls as Ahz turned back. "The other door, there—that's straight into the kitchen. Not that it's a long walk—" He coughed. Slowly, with wary movements, Ahz opened the other door.

"So it is. Well, I—"

"I don't know anything about your brother, Azarahd," and Ahz stiffened at that, nodded, "but if we need to… deal with this, we will. I know my history of loyalty is checkered at best, and it's up to your discretion whether you want to believe everything I say is bullshit, but you're not some thief, and you're not some piece of ass. You're a fucking investment. I don't think anyone has ever accused me of not guarding my investments."

Azarahd's whiskers twitched and his fingers curled tighter into the heels of his shoes as he made pointed eye contact with the tiled floor of the kitchen. He smiled, kept his eyes away. "That is oddly sweet. But it won't be necessary, I—"

"Of course. Just… something to keep in mind."

Ahz nodded to the floor, swallowed. "Of course."

  
Mercer showered, walked out to the empty kitchen in a towel, hair dripping onto the floor and countertops. He felt a swell of satisfaction at the near-full pot of sludge-strong coffee, the used mug in the sink; no extra care taken, no second mug removed from the cabinet, no food to be seen. Exactly what Mercer had asked for, and not more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [FourCatProductions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions) for beta work on this chapter!
> 
> The Ta'agra book is a play on James Bond - the title is You Only Live Nine Lives.
> 
> As always, questions, comments, corrections, and criticism are all welcome. I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Work title and chapter titles refer to _[Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi to her Favored Daughter](https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Words_of_Clan_Mother_Ahnissi)_.
> 
> Constructive criticism and corrections are, as always, welcome and encouraged. Thanks for reading!


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